


All the Small Things

by twisted_savior



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gun play in Chapter 12, M/M, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisted_savior/pseuds/twisted_savior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most don't stop to notice the small details in life. But for the man that observes all, it's child's play. In which Sherlock meditates on the details that make John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, this work is complete, but I will add more chapters as I go along. All the chapters are able to stand alone. If you have a detail you'd like to see then message me, leave it in the comments, or find me on tumblr.  
> silver-wingeddetective.tumblr.com  
> It's going to be very random. Seriously, what ever the hell strikes my muse that day unless I get a prompt idea. All will be of various lengths.  
> Thanks.

 

Before the fall, there was a certain way that Dr. John Watson walked. No, it was more of a saunter really. A smooth bounce in his step and sway to his body. His shoulders were always pulled back, chin high, and arms swinging in their usual army style. He was practically glowing as he made his way down the town streets.

 

It always started with his right foot. Stretching out and pulling the rest of him along until it was time to move again. His left had been a bit more hesitant from his psychosomatic limp at the start, but the confidence was back and his left was meeting his right half way.

 

When he walked, it was art. His clothing moved around his form like rippling waves and his shoes padded even, soft tapping noises on the ground. It was the walk of a man who had seen war and survived, who had faced death and laughed. It was a gliding grace of rough elegance and accomplished power.

 

After the fall, there was a new way Dr. John Watson walked. It was more of a dead movement. There was no emotion or raw power behind it. His right foot still led, but his left dragged behind. The cane was back as well. The rubber end made a muted clank on the ground, followed by the sound of his scuffling feet.

 

He was art that had crashed and burned. The glow he had once dulled to an ashen grey. There was no noticing him on the street. He fell in among the blank, strange faces.

 

His shoulders were hunched over now, back slouching as he moved. His chin was held even with the ground only to see where he was going. When the rubber end would slap the pavement, he still flinched. He didn't enjoy the sound one bit.

 

It reminded him of the pain, not only what he had seen in war, but what he had lost after it. He had survived with his life, only to lose his heart.

 

Only to lose Sherlock Holmes.  


	2. His Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you want to suggest an idea (prompt me) then leave a comment, message me, or find me on tumblr.  
> silver-wingeddetective.tumblr.com  
> Thanks again.

His Smile

Sherlock sat his chair staring at his violin. It's reflective gloss caught his eye. Shaking his head, he carded a hand through his dark curls and stood. He waltzed over to the window, glancing at the citizens wandering on the streets before looking to the sky. It was just another bleak day in London, rain and clouds blocking the sun...but his sun was still there.

He was told that there were days the sun didn't shine. Honestly, he didn't know what planet they lived on (nor did he even care), but he knew they were blind. How could they not see it? That magnificent, radiant, bright, beautiful, perfect little sun that followed him everywhere?

Wait.

No. Scratch that.

They weren't allowed to see it. If they saw what he did, he'd never be able to keep it. People would tear him away, claws leaving jagged rips in his empty being. They would steal his sun and leave his days grey. With a sneer, he turned from the window. No, that wouldn't do at all.

His eyes fell upon the man fast asleep on the couch. He was stretched out facing the back of the couch, an arm tossed over his eyes. His bare back faced Sherlock, the expanse of lightly tanned skinned marred with light scarring and new crescent-shaped divots on his shoulder blades. The detective smirked. One long finger traced the curve of John's hip to his shoulder.

Watson groaned a bit, stretching and rolling onto his back. Sherlock splayed his hand over John's chest, short blonde hairs tickling his palm. The shorter man cracked open an eye, a smile breaking across his face when he was met with Sherlock's steady gaze. A calloused hand, smaller than his own, crawled up to cover his. It was inevitable.

Sherlock smiled.

There was nothing in world like John's smile. Oh sure, everyone saw his sarcastic tilt to his mouth and the one stretch of lips that didn't meet his eyes. But this, oh this one, was the one that made Sherlock's heart squeeze and stomach flutter.

John's teeth weren't perfectly straight. There was one or two at stood out just a tiny bit more than it should, but it was perfect to him.

They weren't bleach white either. Years of tea and coffee made that impossible, but they were white enough for him. It was soft off-white. Seeing it was like being wrapped in fleece.

It was breath-taking to watch. John would slowly pull back his lips to expose the straight (for the most part) teeth that were white enough to shine. It wasn't too wide or showing too much gum. It was an easy, gentle smile that calmed the sea of blue emotion in his eyes. And he couldn't help but smile back.

If not for the simple beauty, but for the fact he alone had put it there. It made him feel warm from head to toe.

Like sunshine washing over him.


	3. His Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another that has kept me from sleeping once again. Fun stuff! Anyways, the offer still remains. You have an idea? Leave a comment or find me on tumblr.

His Hands

 

His were pale, long fingered, and bony, exactly like the rest of him. There were small burns and nicks from experiments, but all in all, they we generally unmarked. His usage of gloves had protected him from callouses during cases, which left his hands soft in the end.

 

But John's were a different story.

 

They weren't overly large like his. No, they fit perfectly in proportion to his body. Like he had noticed, they were tanned from war. Even during the bitter winter, they were still a slight shade darker than his forearm. But it's not like anyone besides him would notice.

 

There was only one significant scar on his hands, the right one actually. It was a thin white line running from the side of his index finger to his first knuckle. It was another minute detail most didn't see, or even bother looking for really. But he had seen it one day while John was stirring his tea, the silvery scar tissue shimmering against the unmarked skin.

 

It happened when he first began using surgical tools in university. A few of his other classmates were surprised when they nicked the bladder of the practice pig. One backed into him, knocking him into the table and toppling his mayo cart. In a scramble to catch the instruments, he found the wrong end of the prepared blade. It was purely accidental really.

 

Years of rugby gave John's hands callouses, war only thickening the skin more. The rough cover lined his fingertip pads and reached down to the tops of his palms. To feel those patches brush over his skin wasn't anywhere near unpleasant. It made white fire dance up his spine. John's touch was gentle, lightly skimming the surface in search for a place to grab. Once he found purchase amongst the flesh, those labored hands would grip him. It was strong, habit from his childhood, but light enough not to leave marks. They were practiced hands of various talents.

 

It reminded him daily of exactly what John was.

 

_Hard-working_

 

_Precise_

 

_Strong_

 

But it was the steadiness to the set that really proved his worth in a tight spot.

 

It was the way that John could hold a gun. No matter the type, the grip always sat perfectly in his palm. By reflex, his fingers would wrap themselves around the covered metal and wait for the perfect moment. The single moment John would have lined his sight up with his target, flicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger. Another flawless shot.

 

_John would always be his soldier._

 

And every night those worn hands would smooth over his body and pull him close, allowing Sherlock to find a warm spot in which to snuggle.

 

And all night, those hands would hold him close.

 

And in the morning, they would be the hands keeping him in the bed as John slept on.

 

And he would never complain. 


	4. His Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one obviously turned out longer. Hope you enjoy it.

His Scent

Was it strange that he noticed it? No, everyone smells like something. Whether it be good or bad, it's still a scent.

Sherlock knew how he smelled before he had met John; cigarettes, chemicals, sweat, decaying bodies. Nothing's wrong with that.

But then along came John.

He remembered walking into the flat after a particularly long day at Bart's. John had finished moving his things in throughout the day, but apparently deleted that fact his mind palace. Opening the door, it slammed into his face. It was foreign to his nose, absolutely strange. He felt every hair on his body stand on end. This wasn't how his flat was supposed to smell. The scent of musty books had been covered, stale smoke out of the open window, and something savory touching his tongue. His brain went into over drive, looking around and inspecting every surface. Where was it coming from? Who was here? And then he found the kitchen and it came back to him.

The little soldier.

John was standing there, stirring his mug of tea. When he heard Sherlock's sigh for the doorway, he glanced up with a tired smirk to greet him. Sherlock nodded his head, watching John finish preparing his tea. The doctor soon dropped the spoon into the sink and passed the other while heading into the living area. That's when he found it. The source of the smell.

Up front, it was musky. But Sherlock cataloged that being from the labor of moving. Which was followed by something warm, and clean. Mostly likely a specific brand of laundry detergent. It was very subtle, probably wouldn't even be able to recognize it throughout the day. By the look of his jumper, John had recently pulled it on. It didn't look as worn from daily use as his jeans did. But then it hit him, nearly smothered him. The robust woodsy, citrus fragrance just lingering in the air John passed through. Oh, now that was pleasant. Making a quick decision, Sherlock fled to his chair and sat with his legs to his chest, simply breathing in the scent of John. At John's offer of tea, he absently nodded while staring. When he saw the blond stand, his instincts propelled him to his feet.

He hovered over John's shoulder the entire time.

From there on out, returning home was pleasant. His greeting was no longer given to an empty flat. Instead, it was reciprocated by the delicious aroma of John lounging in the living area with a cup of hot tea. Sometimes there was even a hot meal waiting for him. It was definitely a welcome change.

John gradually picked up doing house tasks, not really asking Sherlock about them. It was habit to Sherlock to leave his robe on his chair, his trousers where ever, socks who knows, and pants,... well they didn't talk about those. Sherlock only noticed when he would go the day without John and still smell him, still inhale the inviting scent. It was of John's preferred detergent.

In the shower, he could spot a few things out of place. There was a new shampoo sitting on the rack and a bar of soap in the dish. Plucking up the plastic bottle, he flipped open the top and squeezed the gel-like substance on to his hand. He rubbed it between his hands, sniffing until the scent was there.

Citrus.

With a smirk, he ran his hands through his hair, scrubbing and lathering the dark locks, covering them in John's shampoo. He froze. Would John be able to tell? What would he say? Maybe he could pass it off as he just grabbed one blindly? Shaking the thoughts, he rinsed his hair and continued with his shower.

"Did you use my shampoo?" The detective glanced up at the doctor from his chair, which John was leaning over. He clamped his lips shut firmly, eyes going back to his laptop screen. John's soft chuckle rumbled through his ears. There was suddenly a hand ruffling his hair.

"I'll start buy it for both of us then." John threw out, turning and walking away. Oh, how he wanted to call him back and ask him to do that again. To touch him again. A small smile stretched over his face. Running a hand through his still damp hair, he smiled. He smelled of John.

And then there was the time he went in John's room. Purely scientifically research, of course. He was looking for something. He could identify everything John smelled like except for one little detail. The woodsy, clean scent. He couldn't find it anywhere. The detergent was cotton fresh, his deodorant unscented, his shaving cream washed away by the soap in the shower, and he didn't wear any type of fragrance unless he was going out on a date and even then it was fresh, aromatic scent, nothing like the outdoors.

Slowly, he crept up the stairs, keeping his ears trained on the door in case John return from surgery sooner than he expected. Stepping into John's bedroom was quite the experience. It was John all wrapped up in four walls. He looked over the dresser. No small glass bottles or aerosol cans there. Peeking into the drawers, all that were there were lines of neatly folded shirts and trousers. Maybe it was the smell of his drawers lingering on his clothes? He bent over at an awkward angle and sniffed the drawer. Pine, but not even near what he was looking for.

He moved to the desk in the corner. John's laptop and a folder were the only things on it. His eyes fell on the last furniture piece in the room. John's bed. It was a full sized bed with pale green sheets and darker jade duvet with matching pillow shams, a set which was, not surprisingly, a gift from Harry. His bed was made and an old quilt was thrown across the end of it. Cautiously, he lowered himself to the mattress. It sunk around him in a way that was comforting, nothing like his own. Spreading his hands over the duvet, he leaned himself back to sprawl over the bed.

He found it.

The robust woodsy scent that he had been searching for, yearning to find. God, it was addictive. It covered the bed and only the bed. He could smell the detergent left from its last wash and the citrus shampoo over the pillow he used nightly. But the sheets, all of it smelled like newly cut wood in the spring. A sweeter twang to the wood than normal.

When John returned home, he found his bed bare.

"Sherlock, what did you do with my linens?" The detective didn't move his eyes from his computer screen.

"Science, John. For science."

Sherlock smelled of John from that day on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	5. His Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John speaks another language. Just a little thing he picked up in uni.

**His Language**

Sherlock’s ears perked at the sound. A sweet melody of words flowing from a man’s mouth. Nothing but absolute fluency moving over letters and accents that Sherlock had only heard in his head. 

Another voice spoke back, this one sounding rougher, tongue not quite familiar with the language compared to his flatmate’s. Sherlock leaned back, straining to peek through the doorway. He could feel Lestrade moving to stand next to him. 

“I didn’t know he could do that.” He said, blinking as the man rolled off another string of foreign words. Sherlock shook his head. 

“Nor did I. Not something I would expect from him.” Lestrade glanced down to the notepad in his hand, flipping the pages to skim his notes. 

“Back to the body, Sherlock. What happened here? Where’s his foot?” With a sigh, Sherlock went into his deductions. Every now and then, he could steal a glimpse into the kitchen and watch the blond’s mouth move around words he’s never spoken to him, in an accent he’s never heard from him. 

Half way through his rant, he moved to the victim’s mouth and his thoughts suddenly drifted to another mouth he could still hear.

Mouth. Tongue. The way the mouth opened and tongue moved to speak, how it flicked against teeth and clucked against the roof of the mouth to emphasize certain syllables. 

He wondered how skilled that tongue was. From the swivel of it darting out now and then to lick his lips, he would bet it knew a few tricks. 

And those lips. To be able to open and close at the right time, drop open to sound out long vowels and cut tight to speak short consonants. Those thin lips puckering and relaxing around the accent. 

Oh, he could see the accent on his lips, feel the breath moving with the accent, taste the letters dripping from the foreign tone. 

It was marvelous.

How had he not seen it? Actually, it was more like, how did the man hide it from him? They live together and are around each other practically 24/7 and he didn’t hear a single bit of this language. What else could he be hiding? Does he know any more languages, more ways his tongue can turn and flip in his mouth? 

He looked back down at the body. Lestrade had moved over to Donovan, who was explaining details of the victim’s relationship. With a sneer, he strode up to the DI. 

“Check the girlfriend’s car. There should be handcuffs from the looks of his wrists and a cricket bat from the blunt force trauma there.” Greg gives him a look. 

“A cricket bat?” Sherlock pointed to the fireplace. 

“The picture on the end. It was taken at a cricket game and he is obviously a player from the awards on the shelves. It’s his bat, but she obviously wouldn’t leave it here, now would she?” He explained, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into a bin. He was out of the room before Lestrade could question him further. There was another case on his mind, mostly involving the mouth moving faster each second as he continued to chat with the land lord who had found the body. 

That short blond with the tongue forming words so foreign in a voice so familiar. He stared at the land lord, watching him begin to cower under his gaze and end the conversation short. The blond reached out for him as he fled the room. Turning on his heel, he faced his flatmate with a scowl, knowing Sherlock had to have been the cause for the land lord's departure. Before a word could even move passed his lips, Sherlock had grabbed his wrist and was tugging him out of the room. There was a mouth he needed to learn more about.

Who knew Doctor John Watson could speak French? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for another, so here it is. Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.


	6. His Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mystocelet for the suggestion of eyes!

**His Eyes**

**  
**There was a wave—no, it was more like a hurricane of emotion ripping down his well built barriers. Blue-greys filled with absolute untamed rage, burning holes into the man that dared upset him.

John Watson was angry. And this time, it wasn’t even Sherlock’s fault. 

Sherlock took Anderson’s insult like any other day, a shrug and shake of the head, no real damage done. He didn’t actually care to hear what he had to say, only brushed it off with a sneer. John heard it though, and he hadn’t liked it one bit.

John had been facing toward him, talking with him about where they’d go to dine that evening when Anderson slung an insult. He watched as those soft, loving blues turned to steel. They hardened, the color darkening and pupils narrowing as he turned heel to face the forensic examiner. From the side, he could see the blond’s lips crack into an ugly sneer as he bit back what Sherlock knew were callous, offensive words not meant for the public. But being the gentleman John Watson is, he held his tongue and cocked his head. 

“Must you really, Anderson? Is Sally not doing the job well enough that you need to bait Sherlock to get off?” John spat, eyes now impassive and shadowed by his furrowed brow. Sherlock could feel the tension in John’s shoulders from his restraint, giving it his best not to chin Anderson right there on the street in front of half of Scotland Yard. He wanted to step back. Fury was rolling off of John in palpable sheets, the oppressive weight like nothing he had ever felt from his lover before.

“I don’t see what that’s to you!” Anderson shouted, his cropped hair flipping about as he craned himself to his full height. John didn’t step down. He squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw, bracing his 5’6 self to army standards. 

“Then why mention our “fag lifestyle?” John bit out, pulling himself up further, placing himself practically in Anderson’s face. The brunette tripped over his next words, not sure how to respond on why he tried using it as an insult. Facing off with the good doctor in the street didn’t even seem like a plausible outcome though. Sherlock rolled his shoulders and stepped up behind John, placing a hand on the blond’s shoulder. 

At the gentle touch, John flinched slightly, whipping his head around to face him. The consulting detective watched as John’s steeled eyes broke their concentration, flashing a softer expression. 

“Leave it, John. His frustration is not of importance.” His lover gave him a nod and turned back to Anderson. As he turned, Sherlock saw a mask slip over the doctor’s face, eyes growing cold once more.

“I’d watch your mouth next time. You never know if I’d been having a bad day, Anderson. And do Sally a favor, at least let her kneel on the rug. Her knees are looking worse for the wear.” Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking, or worse, chuckling at John’s comment. Sally’s shifting to make sure her skirt covered her knees didn’t help in the slightest. John swiftly turned about his heel, grabbing Sherlock’s forearm and tugging him down the sidewalk. 

Sherlock wasn’t able to see John’s eyes again until they were in the cab. Even then, it was the reflection from the window. John’s face was tightly creased, something obviously on his mind. Their was still a storm behind his lover eyes as they stared downcast at the road. Every now and then the muscle on  the left side of his mouth would twitch. When the cab pulled up outside of their flat, John was the first out. Sherlock sighed, rolling out of the cab after paying the driver. 

In the flat, John was busy making tea. He was scowling, eyes still sharply narrowed as he puttered about. Sherlock quietly removed his outer wear and shoes, placing it all in the hall closet before making his way into the kitchen. The blond slammed another cabinet closed as he put his cup on the counter and impatiently waited for the kettle to whistle. 

“John? Are you alright? It was just another one of Anderson’s throw-offs, you know that. His ignorance has no limit. He’d use anything as an insult.” Sherlock offered. John finally looked up at him. He watched as the hard blue melted, giving way to show his emotional depth. The doctor averted his eyes and slumped against the counter. 

“I know, Sherlock, but I’m so tired of how he treats you. After everything, he still looks down on you. He can’t even be pleasant on a case, no, he has to spit some stupid nonsense form his gob.” A slight smile crossed Sherlock’s face. He pulled himself across the room in long strides, stopping directly before his lover. Grasping the blond’s chin, he tipped his head up. 

Worry. Concern. Frustration. All of it swirled in his eyes. John’s sole focus was Sherlock, how he felt about what Anderson had said. More so, he was worried about if Sherlock was ashamed they had come out about their relationship. 

“John, we’ve talked about this. I don’t care what the others have to say. I’m not in a relationship with them, I’m in one with you. They can call it as they like, but I’ll never deny it. I do love you, John.” Sherlock felt the tension finally leave John’s body, shoulders relaxing. The narrowed shape John had scrunched his eyes to finally disappeared, allowing the full rounds of his eyes be seen. The color was notably lighter, not nearly as menacing as when they had been locked on Anderson’s poor excuse of a person. 

John’s mouth lifted into an easy smile, causing small wrinkles to crease the edge of his eyes. At this angle, he had the perfect view into John’s eyes, the brilliant ocean color rimming the green around the pupil. He could see the worry wash away, the concern melt into the corners, and his frustration ease for the moment. All of it moving to make room for that sweet emotional mess John had wrapped him in months ago, that same emotion that made his eyes sit in content crescents. 

“I love you too, Sherlock. For some reason, I really do.” The consulting detective gave a huffing laugh. That all encompassing love was back, searching through Sherlock’s own eyes for which he knew reflected the same. 

“Yes, for some reason.” He dropped a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, The blond tilted his head and captured Sherlock’s mouth before he could pull back. Stepping back, he watched John’s eyes slowly open again. Those twin pools shimmering, absolute happiness and love.

John’s eyes were wonderful little lights. They could show Sherlock everything he missed in the doctor’s body language. They could show him signals from across a room  and skepticism at another one of his impossible theories. But they always showed the truth. 

John loved him. 

Sherlock  could only hope John saw the same in his eyes.


	7. His Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes to rob for the prompt of touch. I was so excited to write this that I didn't know how to approach it. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks again for reading.

His Touch

He had seen a fair amount of hands in his time. Everyone had them. Right there, at the end of their arms, facing every day wear and tear. Hands tell a lot about a person, from what they do presently to what they have done. The scars, the condition of the skin, the jewelry a person wore, even the way they cut (or bit) their fingernails. He couldn't tell you the number of time he used hands to document clues for his deductions. Okay, he could, but that's for another time. Even so, he had felt very few hands. Most people strayed from touching him, and when he did touch people, dead or alive, he wore gloves. John wasn't one of those. He had no qualms of pressing his bare hands to Sherlock's face, hold his hands tight, or tease any vulnerable spot found.

Sherlock rolled over on the bed to face John's back. He came to face the exit wound of the bullet that had sent the soldier home. It was nearly the size of coin, puckered a bit in the middle around a darker, pea-sized reddish brown spot. The outer edges were like a spider's legs, stretching out in thin, soft spindles that disappeared into the skin. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the scar, smiling when John gave a deep sigh like he was releasing tension.

The warm skin was comforting under his lips. Turning his face, Sherlock let the bridge of his nose nuzzle his lover's shoulder as he snaked a hand over John's waist. He was able to find the blond's left hand draped over his lower stomach. Gently, he pulled himself flush against the smaller back. Once settled, he twined their fingers.

Oh, these hands, these war battered hands ridden with callous and cracks. Those same hands that were strong and so gentle, trailing feather light touches over his skin. These two marvelous things that ventured where others wouldn't and now never will. He closed his grip on John's hand and let them both lay back on the mattress.

Those hands had taught him. They taught him that not everyone wanted to hurt him. Some did truly want to help.

....

_"Damn it, Sherlock! Just let me see the bloody thing, won't you?!" John yelled as he slammed the front door closed. Sherlock was already in the flat, making fast work of the stairs and his outerwear. He set to work taking off his shoes and plucked up his laptop. Flopping down into his chair, he woke the laptop and set to typing madly. John was standing before him shortly, arms crossed and hardened glare set on him. Sherlock winced when he went to return the look. The slightest twitch to his mouth burned._

_"You look ridiculous. Let me look at you, Sherlock." The doctor asked, pulling off his leather gloves and setting them on the table behind him. Sherlock gazed at the pair of hands skeptically before admitting defeat. He set his laptop on the floor next to the chair and stared up at his flatmate._

_"I'm fine, John, really. I've had worse." He argued, setting his jaw tightly. John knelt before him and took his face in his hands. Pulling him forward, Sherlock adjusted himself in the chair._

_"It's not about if it hurts, Sherlock. It's that I don't want it to get infected. I don't like seeing you in pain, Sherlock." The consulting detective blinked, almost taken back. He'd bet not many people could honestly say that. His eyes met John's eyes with a silent question._

_"Honest, Sherlock. Let me help." With that, Sherlock averted his eyes and let John work. Calloused thumbs smoothed over his jaw, flattening the little stubble that had grown over the last two days. He tilted Sherlock's jaw up, studying the blossoming bruise that stretched over his right cheek bone. John gingerly pressed his finger tips to the bruise, but drew them back instantly when his flatmate flinched._

_"I'll be right back. I'm going to get a plaster and little antibiotic ointment, alright. Stay put." Sherlock rolled his eyes, like he was going to go somewhere. Really, John? He leaned back in his arm chair, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. John was back quickly, a dab of ointment on the tip of a cotton swab. John bent over, a hand ever so kindly gripping his jaw and turning his head to the right slightly. He wiped the ointment onto the small gash and took the wrapper off of the plaster. His fingers laid the plaster on the wound and applied a slight pressure. John's finger lingered a short moment longer, caressing the pale expanse of Sherlock cheek and down to cup his jaw. Sherlock glanced back to watch John._

_"See? Just something to prevent it from scarring or getting infected is all." He gave his flatmate a warm smile, patting the plaster before offering him a cup of tea. Sherlock stared at him, nodding in return. Once he had padded off into the kitchen, Sherlock raised his hand to his cheek. He traced his cheek in the same pattern, noting the different feel. John's hand were warm, and a little rough, but it was nice._

....

In that moment, he felt cared for. He felt like someone actually did not want him to bleed out on the street. All from a simple, little, innocent caress down his cheek. Sherlock pulled his hand free from John's. Instead, he looped his arm around John's neck. His fingers softly scraped John's cheek, short stubble pricking under his finger nails as his skin met his lover's. His thumb swept over his cheek bone.

He hoped John felt cared for.

.....

_"You complete fucking arse! Get the hell away from me, you liar! You fake! You—you made me believe you were dead! You made everyone believe you were dead, you left us here grasping at strings. Three years, Sherlock. You were dead for three years and you expect me to just forget that you tricked me and welcome you back?" John shouted, staring at the man who had knocked on his door._

_"Perhaps we take this inside, John. I'd rather not make a scene on your door step." Sherlock pushed passed the shorter man. John had remained at Baker Street, changing nothing, not even the things Sherlock had left around the flat. Once upstairs, he glanced at his violin, still leaning against the window sill. There was a coating of dust lining the strings, but the bow had fallen flat next to it. John hadn't even made a move to fix it either. Once John had shut the door, Sherlock turned to face him. He hadn't heard the shorter man walk up to him. He also didn't expect John to pull back his fist and send it flying right into his jaw. The blond got in two more hits due to his shocked state; one in his stomach that brought him to stoop over and the second in an uppercut as he fell. Sherlock dropped to his knees, cupping his jaw in pain. With wide eyes, he looked up at his once close friend, hands clutching the blond's forearms._

_"John, I'm sorry. I really am. I'd never do anything to hurt you, but Moriarty had snipers trained on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. I can live without the first two, sure it'd be an unfortunate loss, but I couldn't live knowing I was the reason you died. I couldn't let it happen. So I did what he wanted, but I got him. I let his men think I was dead, John. I couldn't tell you because even the slightest knowledge that I was alive might have tipped them off and I couldn't risk it, John. I couldn't let that happen, John. I'd do anything to keep you safe, John, even if it means faking my death and tearing me from you because I couldn't let you die, John. I just couldn't. So don't ask me why I did it because that's all you're going to get. I was selfish enough to keep you safe by taking myself out of the picture, hurting you in the process. I didn't think about how it would effect you, only that'd you'd be alive. I couldn't let them hurt you, John." Sherlock pleaded, looking anywhere but at John's face. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, probably coloring his face._

_"I'm so sorry, John. I truly am so sorry." The dark haired man repeated, bowing his head and dropping his hands to his sides. His face hurt, mostly his jaw from the two hits it received. There was a sudden pressure on his untouched cheek causing him to flinch harshly. He pulled back his entire body, staring at John's hand like it had burned him. He looked back up at John, eyes questioning and mouth gaping. A small smile crossed John's features as he slowly moved the hand back to Sherlock's face, gently stroking over his cheek bone. He didn't deserve this,this intimate gesture sweeping his skin, but John didn't pull away or ball his fist. No, he kept his thumb repeated rubbing small strokes over his cheek bone. Sherlock leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, becoming used to the affection he hadn't felt in so long. Suddenly, John's hand was gone._

_Opening his eyes, he caught John falling to his knees. His hands came up to firmly hold the side of his face, staring as if he was going to vanish if he blinked. The hands slipped down to his neck, fingers grazing over his throat to, what he was sure, feel his pulse. His rough pads found his shoulders and fluidly rolled over and down his back, clutching his coat and pulling Sherlock to his chest. John pressed his face into the hollow of his throat and sighed. Sherlock slowly brought his hands up, placing them hesitantly on the smaller man's back._

_John's hands felt large on his back, strong and clutching him desperately to him. His fingers were spread, as if trying to hold as much as he could, and his finger tips dug into his cloth covered skin. It was different from any hug he'd ever gotten before. It wasn't simple a "nice to see you" from a relative or an awkward "I feel like I have to do this" hug. It was honest. John had missed him. John cared for him. John wanted him here, and he didn't want to let go._

.....

In that moment, he felt wanted. Most only wanted him gone. Sherlock wouldn't lie. He was crass, sarcastic, cold, and brutally honest. People simply didn't want him around because they couldn't stand being around someone that felt no remorse for what he said or did. But John held him tightly to him and didn't let go for the next half hour. They sat there on their knees and talked in hushed tones, asking how they were, what they had done, and other such things. It was the way John held him tight the first few days he was back. They'd be just lying around the flat and arms would twine themselves around his waist as he sat on his stool in the kitchen while peering into a microscope, around his shoulders when he sat with his legs pulled up to his chest in his arm chair, and around his neck when they would be talking to one another. John would just hug him, hold him tight, hands still firm on his body but soft on his face.

Sherlock smiled into the skin on John's shoulder. He slipped his his right arm under John's neck so that he could bend his arm around the blond's neck. He pressed his arm across John's chest, fingers dancing over the scar. His other arm bent under John's armpit and splayed his hand over his lover's heart. Slowly, he pulled the body tightly against his chest, sealing any gaps he had left from moving closer earlier.

He wondered if John knew he was wanted.

.....

_"I love you, John." Sherlock blurted out one day. Stunned, John dropped his spoon in cup and turned to face Sherlock. The consulting detective was in his sleeping pants and shirt. His face was blank as he stared down at his flatmate._

_"You love me?" John asked back. Sherlock colored and turned the other way._

_"I feel a significant amount of affection for you. After reading up, it seems that love would be the only option." The dark haired man filed back into the lounge._

_"I could be wrong through, but it's highly unlikely. I can't go a day without thinking of you, I enjoy when we are able to sit and watch crap telly, I find it endearing when you utter those unnecessary comments for my deductions, and I couldn't stand the thought of ever being away from you." He ranted, pulling out his laptop and running a search on what love was. John crossed the room in long strides, shutting the laptop and taking it from Sherlock's lap. He leaned over Sherlock body, hands bracing himself on the arms._

_"In what way do you love me, Sherlock?" Said man furrowed his brow._

_"What do you mean in what way? I love you. How many ways could there be?" John smiled, stepping back and turned around. Sherlock was a second too late to correct himself._

_"Never mind, Sherlock. I love you, too." He said, sounding almost put out. Not liking that, the consulting detective launched himself from the chair._

_"What? Say that again, John." The blond turned around in the kitchen arch way._

_"I said I love you too, Sherlock." Sherlock smiled broadly, and pounced. His grabbed John by his face and pulled him in, locking their lips together in a sloppy kiss. While Sherlock's hands searched, John's hands gripped his hips and pulled them close together. Sherlock pulled their mouths apart, leaving them both panting._

_"I didn't know you would think I love you in a platonic way. I don't think I could have never done that. I always want more than I should." Sherlock said, pulling John and himself back into the lounge._

_"Well, you don't exactly make hints, Sherlock. I'm left to guess about most things. I thought you were just admitting you care for me like a brother or something." Sherlock laughed._

_"Have you missed how I treat my biological brother?" He pointed out. John chuckled, tilting his head up to place a kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth._

_"Very true. I'm glad it isn't platonic then." Sherlock cracked a devious grin._

_"As am I." He said, spinning their bodies around to pin John to the wall. Sherlock trapped John's wrists above his head and ground his hips into John's. The newly awakened member caught John by surprise. He flashed a wolfish grin and arching his back, spreading his legs to trap one of Sherlock's legs between them. He ground his hips down hard, groaning at the friction it provided. It wasn't long before they were in the bedroom._

_John's rough hands teased with feather light touches. They grabbed hard enough to leave bruises and held him down as his mouth slid over Sherlock's shaft. John's fingers clawed into Sherlock's shoulders as he thrust again and again, leaving shallow divots in the skin. His hands explored, trailing over ever inch of his flesh and leaving a burning fire in its wake. They grabbed to have something to ground himself, pulling away from Earth slowly as they continued their dance._

.....

In that moment, he felt loved. He felt like John cherished not only his body, but him as well. He felt safe in hands that had killed and could still kill. All from those soft touches lingering longer than normal. All those firm fingers pressing him tight against John's smaller frame. All those grabbing moments when John felt frisky or the need to hold Sherlock to him and be sure he wouldn't disappear. The pressure behind each touch left meaning.

**I want to help you.**

**I want to protect you.**

**I never want to let you go.**

**I never want you to leave me.**

**I love you more than anything.**

Sherlock kissed the spot directly behind John's left ear. Oh, this man and his hands. And what those hands had taught him in the passed two years! He let his head fall back to the pillow to stare at the back of John's blond head. He knew the stories that hands could tell by appearance, but touch was something differently entirely. Before John, he didn't know a person could show how much they cared for another being by being so gentle. He didn't know a strong grip could give the feeling of possessive protection and relief. He didn't know someone could put so much emotion behind fingers. He would have never know what it was like to feel loved through hands without John.

Sherlock wondered if John knew how much he loved him.


	8. His Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it. Thanks for reading!

**His Words**

John sometimes stuttered. He often mispronounced a word or two when they were new to him. His vocabulary wasn't nearly as broad as Sherlock's and his accent threw in a few more words.

But when John talked, it wasn't about the complex way he could voice his thoughts. No, it was about the words that came out. To be quite honest, he didn't listen to them half the time when John was still a new addition to his life. Now as a permanent structure, it was a different story.

When John talked, the consulting detective didn't. Sherlock could feel his mind slow, absorbing the words like a water deprived plant. He would watch John's lips form the words, listen to them as they fell, and grasp the meaning. It was truly magnificent to have John talking. The good doctor didn't have a problem with talking either. While he was still the ever polite and logical man, John could voice his opinion without hesitation. That's why when he returned to Baker street, the silence he was met with actually frightened Sherlock.

….

_Sherlock twirled the contents of his beaker to mix the solution thoroughly. He placed it back on the hot plate and upped the temperature. Watching the beaker, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a movement in the room behind him. Sherlock flinched as two hands slipped around his waist and a smaller frame was pressed tightly to his back. He didn't move as John laid his cheek to the back of his shoulder and sighed. The blond pulled back shortly after and went about preparing his tea._

_Ah yes, those hugs. He had only returned three days ago, but John had adapted the urge—no, the need—to touch him. He was sure it was to confirm he was truly there and not a hallucination. John touched him more than said anything aloud. The raven stared at John's back, his blue robe left untied and only just passing mid thigh. Underneath, Sherlock would be sure to find no shirt and could see his faded sweat pants trailing under his heels. When John turned back to the consulting detective, Sherlock confirmed his belief. Facing him was John leaning against the counter with a steaming mug, shirtless. Sure enough, his stomach had thickened from his return home, but not so much that it took away from the toned muscles. Peeking from his shoulder was the discolored scar. John didn't say anything. He didn't even complain that his table was once more a lab bench, or even that Sherlock had burned his tea towel earlier when a small fire came about. John wasn't saying anything._

_"Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?" Sherlock asked, even though he could tell from the dark circles under his eyes, John hadn't slept at all. The blond put down his mug and met the raven's eyes. He expected John to simply nod and turn away like he had for the last two mornings, maybe even a small mutter of good morning in return._

_"I missed you." Sherlock nearly dropped the pen he'd been scratching away with. John hadn't said anything about his absence since he returned. He hadn't even mentioned how he felt after the short outburst in the doorway. Sherlock blinked, taken back by the words. Even more so, the emotion in his eyes accompanying the words._

_Sherlock went to return the phrase, but only stumbled over the letters. He closed his mouth and turned away. He had missed John, terribly so, and he had every reason to tell him._

_"You don't have to say it, Sherlock. I know." John ran his hand over the raven's shoulder as he took his mug with him, moving into the lounge. Sherlock was on his feet immediately._

_"But, I wish to say how I feel." He admitted, voice a tad bit louder than normal. John looked at him surprised. Sherlock averted his eyes, walking over to the mantel. He didn't see the smile spread over John's face._

_"However, I have trouble finding the appropriate emotion to fit with the words." He heard John's mug be set down._

_"Sherlock, sometimes words aren't that important. Sometimes actions speak louder than words, I'm sure you've heard that. Like you can tell a person's life from a glance, I understand what you want to say by how you act sometimes. It's alright if you can't say it, as long as you can at least show a bit of it, then it's fine. Maybe one day you'll be able to say how you feel, but until then, it's alright to be silent, Sherlock. I don't mind one bit." John explained, pushing himself to his feet. The consulting detective turned to him and opened his mouth, only to quickly close it again. Instead, he closed the gap between himself and the doctor, pulling the shorter man to his chest and wrapping him in his long arms. He felt John's arm come to twine about his waist._

…

Because John could use words, he wasn't expected to. But that didn't mean he didn't want to.

"Sherlock, I'm back." John's voice carried from the lounge. The raven shot up from his chair and sauntered into the living room. After hanging his coat on the rack, the blond turned about to face his lover. Sherlock gave him a broad smile.

"I missed you, John."


	9. His Expression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one turned out sort of long, no? I'd like to thank Sue for the "expression" prompt on fanfiction.net. I think it turned out alright. Hope you like it! Thanks for reading.

**His Expression**

Clay is easily manipulated. It can be bent, pulled apart, thinned out, and carved into. It could be smooth or have texture added. Eventually, the clay will harden if left in the open. But if kept moist, it can be changed over and over again into thousands of different variations.

John's face was a like clay.

His skin would fold and pull away, showing different variations of each expression he could possibly show. If it couldn't be used as a vulnerability, Sherlock would be envious. Sure, Sherlock could pull an expression or two, but John's...John's were always genuine, even if he actually wasn't. The blond could pull any expression from his pocket and use it to his advantage. It had been quite helpful on a few occasions. John would calm a windowed wife, ask a few questions, and they'd have a lead to follow. Or when he decided to play a crooked officer. The expression of absolute greed flashing across his face when presented with a two gram bag of cocaine. All so believable, yet such a facade. But at the same time, he couldn't stop the expressions from showing. He couldn't hold a stoic face for the world. Sherlock didn't blame John. He had used year of isolation to practice his own void expression while John had used his expressions to comfort patients. Plus, it was always a advantage to see the expression than having to deduce it.

…...

_John was sitting in his arm chair, facing the fire place. He had made no noise since he'd come in an hour ago. The blond only shucked off his coat and let his stethoscope hang from the same hook. He pulled off his shoes and left them by the door before making a bee line to his chair. He hadn't even made himself tea. Sherlock had heard him come in, but waited in the kitchen. When John didn't come through, he stood and moved to the lounge._

_He saw his John sitting with his back to the kitchen, not even flinching as his lover moved up next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. John's lips were pulled down, the skin around it pulling tight from the decline. The skin around his eyes sagged, creases in full by the corner of of his eyes. His forehead had a deep crease across it while his brows were deeply furrowed. Sherlock gripped the blond's shoulder before moving to the fireplace. Throwing in a few logs and some charcoal ignition, he lit a match and eased the fire to a gentle flame. John was stressed. Work was not kind to him today._

_Sherlock filed back into the kitchen and put on the kettle. When it finally whistled, the raven grabbed a mug and spooned a bit of sugar in it. He brought the hot tea to the table beside John. The good doctor still didn't move. He didn't even notice Sherlock fidgeting around him. The consulting detective allowed John his peace of mind. Instead, he plucked up his violin and flopped down on the sofa. Finding his bow, he stretched his arms and tucked the instrument under his chin. With a flourish, Sherlock brought his bow across the strings as he began to play. He couldn't stand silence when John was present. He needed John to talk, to complain, to make unnecessary noises that made Baker street home. Two full melodies later, John finally moved._

_The blond let his body relax, shoulders losing their tension and furrow from his brows lightening. His blue eyes finally met Sherlock's. With a small smile, the raven laid his violin and bow on the sofa, and made his way to his arm chair across from his lover. He sat down, pulling his legs up to his chest, and waited. John glanced down at the tea. A small smirk finally rid him of the deep frown and creased brow._

_"You made tea." John said. Sherlock wanted to be gentle, to ease the stress from John, but couldn't stand the way his face tried to force happiness while the creases screamed guilt._

_"You lost someone." He replied, looking away from John. The blond pursed his mouth, opening it to snap out a bitter retort. The furrow returned to his brow, as did the crease across his forehead. His eye brows arched down, narrowing his eyes in anger. However, the expression melted away with a sigh. He knew what Sherlock was doing._

_"Yes, a three year old girl passed after being hit by a car. Her aorta ruptured in a car accident. We were trying to artificially pump the blood, but she had lost too much. She died open on the table, blood on my hands." John explained, a deep sorrow shadowing him. The creases smoothed out on his forehead, but gathered near his mouth as he bit the inside of his lip. It was one thing for John to lose an adult patient. Even if it wasn't long, they had experienced life. But a child, one not even in primary school. Child death was harder._

_"John, it wasn't your fault." Sherlock said. John shook his head, waving his head as he bit down harder on his bottom lip threatened to tremble._

_"I'm over the guilt, love. I know it wasn't my fault. I didn't collide cars with her mother, but she was so young. She hadn't experienced anything in life." Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, nodding. He stood before John with his hand out stretched._

_"Bed?" Sherlock offered. Relief washed over John's tanned face. The creases of his forehead retreated and his eyes fell into content crescents, lines of happiness forming in the corner of his eyes. A small twitched his lips, pulling the pink flesh up and creasing his cheeks to happy apples. Still smiling, he allowed for his lover to pull him to his feet and lead him to their bedroom._

…...

Happiness exposed the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes. His smile highlighted the lines around his mouth and the age of bags under his eyes. Sadness pulled his brows to a furrow and the lines around his mouth lower as the pink flesh declined. Confusion brought upon one raised brow and an open mouth. Amusement washed a golden light over his face, eyes bright and so creased they were almost shut. His broad smile stretched the skin around his mouth so tight and pulled the laugh lines up. Tender love warmed John's face, the small smile not really touching creases as all tension left his body and only the raven remained on his mind. But there was one expression he rarely saw.

Fear.

…...

_Sherlock didn't know what he was feeling. A nervous bubbling flipped his stomach, making him feel nauseous. His wrists were handcuffed to the radiator, forcing his body to remain seated on the floor with his hands behind him. No matter how hard he pulled, they wouldn't give. The feeling in his stomach only worsened. His chest grew tighter, veins cold as he kept his eyes on the man across the room. He couldn't see it, but he was sure his crystalline eyes were wide and mouth puckered from his teeth gnawing on the skin of his cheeks._

_He was scared. He was truly terrified._

_John was seated in a chair across the room. He was shirtless, the dim light showing the various scars from life littering his body and the blond patch of hair spotting his chest. John's head was being pulled back from the hand gripping the back of his neck. There was already blood dried to the side of his head from when they had been abducted. From the size, Sherlock guessed it was from the butt of the pistol being prodded to John's temple. John didn't flinch when the gun was introduced. He sat calmly and still with his hands in his lap. Sherlock wouldn't lie. He was a bit impressed with the blond's reaction. Soldier and all, John had been away from combat for some time now. He had definitely expected John to be a little worried._

_But John's expression hadn't changed once. His lips were pulled into a tight line, his laugh lines smooth. His forehead and brow was devoid of any movement, even the creases around his eyes were still. It was one of the first times he had really seen John with a stiff face. His eyes were fierce, staring directly at Sherlock. When their captor moved around and moved the barrel of the gun to underneath John's chin, Sherlock pulled against his cuffs again as he watched. He almost smiled when John spit the residual blood in his mouth at the man's face. He whispered something and then brought his knee up in a quick movement. It made contact with the man's groin, who lost his balance. John grabbed the barrel of the gun and aimed._

_One bullet. In the head._

_John's hand didn't shake._

_Once their captor was...incapacitated, John removed the clip and threw the gun down. He knelt down and searched for the keys in the man's pockets. Finding them, he hurried over to Sherlock and freed him. Sherlock's hands found John's face. His fingers traced the creases around his mouth, all slack, and then his brow. They were slightly furrowed, but his eyes still wide._

_"S-Sherlock?" John asked, voice trembling. Sherlock launched his body forward, encasing John in his long arms._

_"Thank you, John." He said._

…...

Years of practice may have given Sherlock the ability to remain expressionless, but they had given John the ability to hide his fear. Only at that time was his normally expressive face so dead of every emotion. Every crease on his face was pulled tight. His eyes set in determination, body at the ready to react.

And to see that open, loving face missing any expression of lines, creases, or folds was strange. Nothing in the world terrified him more that seeing his lover so cold.

But then again, John would always be a soldier.

His soldier.


	10. His Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one took longer than anticipated because of finals and everything, but it's finally done. It's the longest one so far. I'd like to thank 1billsookie for the suggestion of using color. I decided to just use the rainbow or I'd write about every color I could possibly think about. We'd be here for a while trying to get over "tickle-me-pink" if you know what I mean. Hope you like it and thanks again for reading!

**His Colors**

**_Red_ **

Blood.

Hate.

Anger.

Apples.

Those were only a few of the things that are red, figuratively or physically.

Sherlock had seen enough blood in his life time. Blood was the fluid of life, it's what keeps people alive and moving. Blue in the body and red when oxygenated, blood was in everything that interested the consulting detective. He had seen blood splattered from a young—cheating—wife that had been beaten to death by her husband's sister. He had seen a lawyer that appeared to have been poisoned, then aerated, and left to bleed out in his tub, effectively drowning in his own blood. He'd seen it drip and seep from his own body after hanging in alleys for a lead. And Sherlock had seen the pea-sized drops of blood from after he pulled the needle back from his vein. Blood wasn't new, but he saw just a bit less of it now. With John, there was only blood at the crime scenes. And every once in a while he'd leak a bit. It was red.

Hate was red. Hate was so vivid and tied to the darkness of anger, leaving a person blind by emotion. Oh, emotions. Those useless, little, pin-pricks stabbing at the heart and causing insanity in the human mind. Sherlock hates. He hates what Moriarty did. He hates himself for not being clever enough to fool the bastard. But most of all, he hates that he hurt John. He hates that Moriarty stole John from right under his nose. He hates that he let him. He hates that he was so obsessed in one person that it took endangering the only person to ever show him love for him to realize where his true interest laid. An anger so thick, so heavy, so absolute takes over. It was red.

Apples are red. They're also delicious, crisp with sweet juice. John would buy a dozen at the peak of the fruit's season. There was nothing better than when John sliced them thin, and sprinkled them in brown sugar, sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon. He'd then spoon them into a small puff pastry, weave strips of the same dough over the top, pinch the edges, and put them in the oven. Returning home to the warmth of cinnamon and apples baking was like nothing he'd ever experienced. His mother didn't bake. She left that to the nanny and the chef. That's what they were paid for. There is a difference between a stranger and a loved one making an apple tart. It was sweeter, but he'd never actually admit that. It was all sentiment. They weren't actually sweeter in comparison to the John's or his nanny's apple tarts. He knew that, and for some reason he didn't have a problem with that.

John brought home a bag full of fruit yesterday. They were red.

But there was nothing as red as what he found out John had in his drawer. All the way in the back, underneath a few older shirts, there was something bright red. He'd found it while indexing John's socks. The fabric was worn, not by constant wear but age. He tugged them out and unfolded them. White elastic around the hips. White cotton stitched down to form the y-front and hug his thighs. Red fabric that would stretch over his rounded back side and cup his front. With a smirk, he pulled the elastic out tight. Sherlock allowed it to snap back to his finger.

John had red pants.

Red was officially his favorite color of pants. Especially now that he had convinced John to wear them again.

And it definitely had nothing to do with him buying enough for John to wear a different pair every day of the month.

And they were red.

 

 

**_Orange_ **

There weren't many things in his life that were orange. Orange was a vibrant, exciting color and his life was anything but. He rarely even ate the fruit with its namesake Sure, Sherlock would snack on an orange when Mrs. Hudson chanced a visit and happened to bring one by. They were sweet, but not overly so. Refreshing. John bought them home every now and then as well, but the good doctor preferred grape fruit, as did Sherlock.

He didn't wear orange. Ever. He didn't own anything that was orange. End of story.

But John did. He didn't flaunt the color, but he had an old shirt or two in different shades of orange. John had no qualms with the color. Neither did Sherlock, but that didn't mean he wanted his flat blinding him with such an obnoxious color. Apparently, John noticed his lack of color.

On his birthday, there was a small, neatly wrapped box on the counter next to his microscope. John had left early for the clinic. He figured that must have been when he placed it there. Sherlock dropped himself in his stool and dragged the box over to him. He avoided picking it up in order to keep the object a surprise. It was small enough to just fit in the palm of his large hand. The wrapping was a rough brown paper, nothing gaudy or exactly celebratory. It was perfectly taped and tucked so he was able to remove the box's top without having to tear the paper. On the lid was a hand-twirled, green and gold ribbon. The raven pulled off the bow and tied it around the base of his microscope. He then pulled off the top, set it aside, and peeked in. White tissue paper hid the object inside. Cocking his head, he pushed it all aside and almost laughed.

It was an orange mug. Sherlock plucked out the mug and set it on the table, staring down at the manufacturer's even paint job and the perfect finishing gloss. It was nice, just another mug. John was always simple with holiday gifts, always something practical and useful. Not nearly as exciting as when he would bring home blood samples or tissue chunks for him. With a smile, he stood and brought the mug along with him. Standing over the sink, he looked at the five white mugs hanging from the small hooks. Sherlock took down the middle mug and replaced it with his new, bright mug. When John came home, he made tea and offered some to Sherlock. Out of habit, John prepared his tea in a white mug and brought it to Sherlock on a matching saucer. Seeing the mug, the consulting detective frowned and watched John sit in his armchair, sipping his own tea.

Sherlock snatched up his mug and went back into the kitchen. Seconds later, he was sitting back in his chair with a new mug of the same tea. It was his orange mug.

He pretended not to notice John's smile hidden behind his own mug. From that day on, John always served Sherlock tea and coffee in his orange mug. Each time, John tried not to giggle.

Orange isn't such a bad color.

 

 

**_Yellow_ **

Sherlock returned home, slipped off his shoes, threw his coat and scarf over his chair, and then went to flop down on his bed. Well, their bed since Sherlock had taken it upon himself to move all of John things into his room and inform the blond that they would be sharing a bed from then on. He eyes were closed before he even hit the mattress.

Four day without sleep had left him running on empty and he had promised John he'd go to sleep. Rolling to his back, he let out a deep breath, feeling the motion through his entire body. Where did John get off telling him to sleep? The other man had been up for the past two days as well, working the clinic and running the streets of London with him.

'John must be tired.' Sherlock thought, turning over to his side. He stretched out his right arm to flop over John's side of the bed. His foot snaked under the quilt. He pulled the quilt up his body and spread it over himself. Lifting himself, he snuggled under the blanket, still fully clothed. The strong aroma of detergent and old linen crept up his nose. Did John put a new cover on the bed? Cracking open an eye, Sherlock shot up from the sheets.

Pooled around him was a soft, hand-stitched quilt. Sherlock ran his fingers over the even white stitches holding the cloth squares together. The squares were a variety of soft yellows, ranging from banana to lemon ice yellow. They had been put together with not much thought, but was still pleasant on the eyes. He gripped the quilt in his fists and then let it drop. It was old, roughly twenty, maybe twenty-five, years at least. Sherlock pulled the quilt back around him and settled into its warmth.

When John finally returned home after his shift at the clinic, Sherlock was lying across the sofa with the quilt covering him from his shoulders to the back of his calves. John dropped his coat on his chair and slipped off his shoes. Making his way over to his lover, he pulled the quilt back off of Sherlock's legs and sat in the gap. He then stretched his legs out and bent them at the knees so that his feet were flat on either side of Sherlock's hips. He let the quilt drop back down to cover him.

"I like this quilt." Sherlock finally said, using his feet to pull John forward and lock his ankles behind John's back. John chuckled under his breath, digging his toes into Sherlock's sides.

"I can see that." John replied. Sherlock made a humming sound in return.

"Who made it?" The consulting detective sensed the hesitation on John's part.

"My mother. She had made me a quilt to take with me to uni. I used it so much, it was as thin as a rag when I finally returned home. She made me this one when I was deployed. I took it with me over seas, kept it on my cot in the medic's tent the entire time." John admitted. Sherlock felt John's hands smooth over the skin on his ankles. Calloused fingers softly rubbed over the bone. He had seen a picture of John's mother, quite a lovely woman she was. John had her warm eyes, sharing not only the color but the way they crinkled when she smiled. It was a small wallet photo John kept in an equal sized frame on the mantel.

"She's passed, hasn't she?" John's hands tightened on his ankles for a short moment.

"Yes, three years after I was deployed. She had breast cancer and went into remission. She couldn't fight it a second time." Sherlock didn't respond, but slipped his hands down to his sides to grip his lover's ankles.

"Her birthday is tomorrow. I just wanted to have a piece of her close to me." Sentiment. Sherlock slowly unlocked his ankles from behind John's waist and moved so that he could sit up. He laid his head on John's stomach and stretched back out, pulling the quilt over the both of them. John let his legs fall flat and moved his arms to rest on Sherlock's back. Sherlock twined his own arms around John's waist and settled himself. Sherlock dug around in his head for something...sentimental...to say.

"Let's bake her a cake." He offered nonchalantly. Sherlock felt John look down at him.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I usually just take out her quilt. I miss her is all. We don't have to—," John tried to explain, carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls now.

"I insist we bake a cake. I actually understand how it feels to miss someone who is vital to you. We'll go down to Tesco tomorrow. We need milk." John chuckled again, the warm sound vibrating through Sherlock's ears. He couldn't help the small smile that spread over his lips. Sherlock never got the milk.

"I'll even volunteer to get the milk." At this, John gave a full out laugh.

"No, you won't." Sherlock didn't bothering trying to stop his own laugh.

"No, I won't." Sherlock pulled the quilt tightly around the two of them.

Yellow became comforting.

 

 

**_Green_ **

It's a monster they say. Green so deep, yet so vivid. Almost indescribable. He thought they were joking. They had to be. Jealousy, the green-eyed monster? Such petty emotions: anger and envy. Pointless, absolutely pointless.

Apparently they weren't.

And Sherlock knew that now.

It had been a simple trip to the store, right after a case. They were in the cab when John mentioned they were out of milk. Of course, Sherlock didn't care. John could leg it to Tesco after they had gotten home. It was a nice walk, if a bit long. But John had taken a fall during the case. After cornering the suspect in his home, the man bolted out of his front window and took off down the street. For in invalidated soldier, his lover was still fit. John was quick to predict his actions and went back outside. The minute the man came around the corner, John took him down. It was a rough spill out on the tarmac, cracking John's knee cap to the hard surface. Surely he was in pain. Biting back any snark, Sherlock asked the driver to drop them at the Tesco around the corner.

Sherlock lurked behind John as he picked up a few things they needed and dropped them in his basket. They finally moved to the back of the store for the refrigerated items. John grabbed a carton of milk and then turned to Sherlock.

"What would you like for dinner, love?" The raven shrugged, glancing around.

"Fine. You go pick something you want me to make then. Something I won't have to fight for you to eat. I'll wait up at the check out." Sherlock rolled his lips into a sneer and wandered back to the bakery. Maybe a nice soap bowl, like broccoli and cheddar in a nice sourdough bowl. The consulting detective grinned to himself, moving around the bread displays to find two decently sized bread loaves. He went back to John and dropped the bread in the basket. The blond smirked, leaning back against the wall as he waited. Sherlock darted over to the produce and grabbed a fresh bunch of broccoli, then grabbed a block of cheddar from from the dairy section. When he returned to his lover, Sherlock wasn't pleased in the least.

A woman, between 35 and 37 from the look of her crow's feet, was chatting with John. She was 5'6 with just enough curve to make her floral dress cling in all the right places. As conservative as it was in length, lacked around the breasts. The deep plunged of the neckline ended right in the middle of her breast bone, exposing a fair amount of cleavage. She would flick back her heat-curled hair and laugh in an annoyingly high pitch that made Sherlock wince. John would laugh as well though. He wasn't bothered with the tightness of the dress or the superfluous exposure of her chest. In fact, the expression on his face seemed as if he enjoyed it, relished in the attention of the attractive woman.

A sudden tightness in his chest made him flinch. His heart felt heavy, sinking to his stomach as John continued to talk with the woman. No, this was John, ever loyal and trustworthy John. There wasn't any sort of doubt in their relationship...

The woman's hand suddenly found John's arm. When John didn't do anything to remove it, Sherlock straightened his back and stormed over. He dropped the items in the basket and rolled his lips at the short woman.

"Oh, hello! You didn't tell me he was so attractive!" She immediately turned her attention to Sherlock, eying him up and down. The raven haired man shifted his weight to his right foot and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He introduced himself sharply. She didn't waver at his cold tone.

"Consulting detective, I haven't heard of one of those before. What do you do?" Sherlock didn't even try to hide his amusement.

"It's much easier to show you." He replied.

"Sherlock, don't—," John tried, placing his hand on Sherlock elbow. His lover shook it off and circled the woman.

"Stay at home mother of a three year old girl. You regularly removed your ring because your marriage is going south, but without a new husband or lover, you don't bother worrying about a divorce because you need him to take care of you. When you were a child, you split open your chin. You applied a heavier amount of foundation to your chin as if to hide something, most likely a scar. Your fashion, hair, and make up confirm that you are current on fashion fads and appearance is a priority to you. You've lived in money all your life though. The way you casually flaunt yourself suggests higher breeding. You've also had plastic surgery on your neck, nose, and breasts. The oldest being your nose, roughly ten years ago. The skin around your nose is tighter than that of your cheeks. Want me to move on?" The woman stood with her mouth gaping, the muscles around it moving but not being enough to close. A sudden smile stretched over her face, laughter bubbling from her lips. Sherlock was taken back. He glanced to John, but he was only shaking his head as he greeted the cashier.

"That was good, but you missed one thing." She admitted, holding up a slender digit. Sherlock brought himself up to full height.

"I'm a lesbian." Sherlock held tight to his stoic expression. Lesbian? But how...how the hell did he miss that? The way she held her body, the touch, the flicking of her hair...the rough, worn canvas flats strangely matching with her countryside floral sundress. She's not even from town. She was dressed up for the town. How did he miss that?

"You're such a genius. I always thought not even petty jealousy would cloud your mind." With that she turned away and waggled her fingers to John. He stood at the counter and flashed Sherlock a smirk, cocking his head in a gesture for them to leave. Sherlock pursed his lips, but followed.

He wasn't jealous.

No.

But the Green-eyed Monster was.

 

 

_**Blue** _

John can sing.

Not like angel or a sophisticated opera singer.

It was rough, but calm. It was soothing to hear his voice squeeze words into streams of melody. He didn't sing rock, or pop, or country. No, there was a gravelly edge when he would sing. And the emotion behind the sound was like water spilling down a mountain side.

John can sing the blues.

He could pack so much emotion into a chunk of words. It was impressive and wonderful and...he would only sing in the shower. Or when he knew Sherlock wasn't home.

Sherlock could understand why John could sing the blues. His mother passed from a long-term illness when he was young, leaving him, his sister, and father alone. He lost touch with his father after he threw his sister out for being a lesbian. From her father's rejection, Harry turned to hard alcohol. Sherlock couldn't count the number of times John had told him of times during his stay at uni that he had to go pick up his sister from a bar or get her from lock up for public intoxication. John then joined the army after he earned his doctorate only to be invalidated when he took a bullet to the shoulder while trying to save a young lieutenant's life, which he did even with blood draining from his shoulder. When he came back to London, he met Sherlock and became fast friends only to lose the consulting detective for three years. John had struggled in his life. He could draw emotion from those tough times.

There were times when Sherlock would return early from case work and hear the ending lyrics. Those last few powerful words that had probably made the entire song. It would literally stop him in his tracks at the door, making him lean against its frame and listen to those last few seconds. John would of course stop short after he heard the door close.

And there were times when John would still be half asleep in the morning and let a ballad or two out as he readied himself in the morning. Sherlock would lie still as possible on the couch as he listened, feigning sleep just to hear his lover sing. Or those moments when Sherlock would sneak about the house when John thought he was sleeping and went to the shower. He would sit right outside of the door and listen.

John's voice wasn't perfect by technical standards, but to the untrained ear it was far from bad. It was wonderful really. Sherlock could hear the missed notes and fallen sharps, but that didn't matter to him. It was the emotion behind the tune, it was the raw feeling John was sharing vocally. Sherlock couldn't do that.

Of course, Sherlock could sing. He was classically trained after all. Mummy would never allow for her children to lack in any area. He knew how to belt out a good, simple tune to match his violin, but nothing more. It was all...boring really. He enjoyed the music to its full extent, don't get him wrong, but he's heard it all. His voice was smooth, deep, and monotone. John could hit all types of notes, especially those growling deep ones that just maybe caused Sherlock's blood to pump a little faster, but he'd never admit to that.

Blue was an exciting little secret.

 

 

_**Purple** _

"I can't believe you said that to her." John said as he stepped into their flat. He toed off his shoes and wandered to the kitchen for tea. Sherlock scowled at the smaller man's back, rolling his eyes as he walked away.

"It was the truth. I don't see why I shouldn't have told her. I would like to think someone would tell me if you were cheating on me rather than finding it out later down the road, which would actually be quite improbable if not impossible seeing as any attempt of you hiding an affair from me wouldn't be successful." John came back into the room with two mugs, his own white and Sherlock's orange. The consulting detective dropped into his chair was a sigh.

"Sherlock, you'd never have to worry about that to begin with because I'm not going to cheat on you. You could have at least been more polite than saying it to her in such a public place. Here, drink this. I'll get you some ice for that." John said as he left the mugs on the table and turned back to the kitchen. Sherlock's fingers prodded at the tender over his cheekbone. She was a wealthy woman with many rings, who just so happened to take a few martial arts classes in her time. He simply didn't expect her to punch him in public. She had an image to retain. By attacking him in public, she would no doubt be on the paper's headline tomorrow and have a large amount of the public opinion turned against her for being violent. He flinched at the touch, but pushed himself to stand when John entered the room once more.

"Thank you, John, but I think I'll take a shower first." The good doctor shrugged his shoulders and tossed the small baggie of ice into the sink. Sherlock grabbed a towel from the linen closet before heading into the bathroom. He stripped himself of his shirt before looking in the mirror. There was a small scratch from the woman's ring, but the skin around it was beginning to bruise. He leaned in over the sink to get a closer look. It was a shade of purple fading into red, the edges barely pink. It was small, no larger than a coin. With a sigh, he stood back from the mirror. A similar looking mark caught his eye.

It was larger than the mark on his cheek and more red due to age. It stretched across the highest point of his left collar bone. His fingers traced the circular mark, admiring the way it was shaped A small smirk crossed his face. John had caused that mark. When it was new, it was a deep red that had turned into a darker purple bruise. John left it a few days back while the had been lying on the sofa, blissfully and leisurely kissing. John moved down from his mouth to the opened collar of his shirt. His teeth scraped over the edge of his bone and dug into the flesh there. Sherlock groaned at the burst of pain, feeling his back arch slightly as John sucked at the mark. When he pulled away, Sherlock didn't catch a second to see it. John's lips were latched to his once more and he was preoccupied with something else for the rest of the night. The next morning, there was a vibrant purple mark.

He turned slightly to the right, taking in the sight on the large purple mark in the middle of his shoulder. Sherlock couldn't stop the grin from spreading over his face at that one. His fingers traced over the dark mark, tips grazing over the indents. They were small, about the size of nail tips moving in an oval shape. Almost like two capitol letter Us facing one another.

John bit him.

Right in the middle of his shoulder, a place easily concealed, John had left a large bruise from his teeth. Sherlock recalled the moment of climax, his back arching as John's fingers clutched his hips tightly. There had been a sharp pain in his shoulder, but he hadn't the time to look or even care. It was magnificent. The way the pain shook through that amount of pleasure bursting inside of him. It was John grounding him, keeping him level, giving him the peace to keep his wits about him. It was a blessing really. In a moment of truth, Sherlock had admitted his fear of intercourse. The way a person could allow their emotional highs to control their body, inhibiting any logical thought as all common sense fell flat and the only thing on their mind was pleasure. John had been understanding. He simply nodded and asked if they could try. Sherlock, being the daring man he is, agreed only if John would stop if it became too much. The good doctor stood, pulling his jumper over his head before leaning down and claiming the consulting detective's lips aggressively.

_"I won't let you fall."_

John had said, moving to quickly help Sherlock out of his clothing. Things progressed quickly, Sherlock moaning as John touched and felt around. He could feel it, his mind slipping into a lustful haze. Right before he was going to pull away, a piercing pain shocked him. It startled him even more so when a loud, keening moan bubbled from his lips as his back arched. Suddenly, he felt like he was on steady ground once more. He looked down to see John licking over the spot he had bitten down, stroking his hot tongue over the small wound.

_"I will always catch you. You just have to trust me, Sherlock."_

There had been so many marks after that. The usual rounded hickeys matching the large love bites. The pain worked and John began to get creative. He wake in the morning with burns around his wrists, smirking at the pain it caused when he moved his hands. There had been nights he'd stare down in longing at the long, red welts forming on his thighs and almost screaming at the delicious sting of his leather riding crop. It was enticing and absolutely perfect with the pleasure John caused. It kept his brain from floating off. It was wonderful. But, it wasn't always like that. There were times where Sherlock just wanted to be loved and John loved him. He would cherish every part of his body slowly, at an almost torturous rate. Other times, Sherlock took over, giving the same treatment to his lover.

They each left marks.

And they were always purple.


	11. His Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So I'd like to thank everyone once again for reading and definitely to those who have taken the time to review. I means a lot. I acknowledge that this chapter probably won't seem as strong as the last, but I still have two more prompts I need to write so...I have a chance to redeem myself. I'd like to thank VictoriaLucia for the prompt of "his heart." I wanted to write it, but it might not be as you might had seen it. I wanted something that was more about Sherlock's resistance to care and how freely John can. Thanks again everyone.

**His Heart**

Concern. Care. Love. Sherlock had done everything possible to avoid them. He left himself physically and emotionally detached from others. He didn't want it and he surely didn't need it. Emotions led to deep attachments that would eventually cloud his mind. He'd constantly feel the need to see that one person, be around that one person, know that one person was safe. And safety wasn't exactly his forte. He couldn't bare becoming attached and then having that person ripped away. It'd weigh to heavily on his mind. Sherlock couldn't handle anything as trivial as concern taking up space in his mind palace. He needed to be able to question and analyze anything at a moment's notice. He didn't allow emotion to even cross the threshold of his mind. Any physical bond led to a craving of touch and pleasure. It'd be almost as bad as his previous addictions. He would wind up spending hours chasing down one night stands and take up shoddy cases to only take up time during the day. Both would grow to be of no interest. He'd be hopelessly bored once more and a needle would find its place in his hand.

That was until he met John.

This man—no, this soldier—was going to be the end of his reputation. He knew it and it left Sherlock grasping for straws. There were so many reasons for it being bad, reasons like Moriarty. But there were many reasons that it could be good, reasons like Moriarty's men being left dead in various places from vastly different circumstances. Those poor, unfortunate men had the pleasure of meeting Sherlock before death. The moment he met John at St. Barts was something else. A man he'd never met, one who had obviously never heard of him, offered Sherlock his personal phone. Anyone who had heard of Sherlock wouldn't even offer their hand at the risk of something being deduced. But John simply dug out his mobile and handed it over. But again, he didn't know anything about Sherlock and his abilities. Even so, handing your phone over to a stranger wasn't exactly common place.

But John is generous.

John is kind.

He is warm.

He is compassionate.

John cares.

And John cares about Sherlock.

Even more so, John wasn't afraid to let others know how much he cared either. To John, caring for others wasn't a weakness. It made him stronger as not only a doctor, but a person. It made him determined to do everything in his power to save a stranger and to spend as much time as he could with those he held dear. John knew personally how short life can be. But caring also made him selfless. As fantastic a quality this could be, it could make John's decisions reckless. Sherlock had seen this first hand. He wouldn't never delete the image of John's blank face, eyes lost as he blocked reality. A simple trick he learned as a soldier. Sherlock didn't quite know what to make of this. It was so foreign to him, the complete opposite of him. Emotions were weak. They had always been a vulnerability in the human race. But John wasn't weak.

It began simple. Sherlock missed a few meals. It was no big deal to him. He rarely even noticed the growl of his stomach as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. The consulting detective could go at least two day on minimal snacks before hunger pains would get to be too much. Eating was a waste of time. It was boring to say the least. With John, those hunger pains didn't show too often. The good doctor wouldn't force Sherlock to eat out with him while on a case, but when it was only the two of them in the flat, John would place a plate of food next to him and sip his tea. At first, Sherlock argued. He was fine. Eating only slowed him down, it was boring, it was a waste, he wasn't hungry. He used any excuse he could to remove himself from the situation. However, John used his reasoning as a doctor to convince him, logic being the most convenient way to Sherlock's mind and, apparently, stomach. But again, Sherlock glared down at the plate and kept typing. John sighed and jumped up from his chair, snatching the laptop right from under his nose. Impressed at the speed, Sherlock looked up. John shut the laptop and went back to his chair, sitting politely with the laptop tucked in the side of the cushion.

_"Sherlock, what do you know about food?" John asked, face devoid of excess emotion. His eyes and mouth in a rested position as he waited for Sherlock to speak._

_"Enough of the basics." Sherlock said, now glancing over the plate. He looked over the seared shell fish and green peas over the plate._

_"So pretty much nothing, considering you don't eat it. I may not force to eat while we're out, but you will eat at the flat. So tell me, Sherlock, what am I serving you?" John asked him, gesturing with his hand to the dish. Sherlock cocked his head, curls falling over in the same direction._

_"Seared scallops with a lemon, sweet pea relish. You bought the scallops and peas fresh from the market." John nodded at the other man's answer._

_"Yes. Now, take that fork and shovel it in your mouth before I come over there and do it myself." John snapped. Sherlock dared to glare at John. However, when he lifted his eyes from the plate, John was glaring back with a more threatening expression. John was serious. His face held no signs of sarcasm. His lips were pulled into a tight line, eyes narrowed and promising military restraint from the smaller man as he forced Sherlock to eat. Without question, Sherlock picked up the fork, sliced the large scallop in half, and ate the first piece. He was pleasantly surprised at the tenderness of the shell fish falling apart in his mouth. It was lightly seasoned and perfectly seared, the golden brown sides serving as a beautiful crust on the piece. He looked up at John as he swallowed._

_"This is good." He nearly whispered. John nodded his appreciation as his threatening glare died and he sat more comfortably in his chair, hands clasped together on his lap._

_"Scallops are 80% water. A six ounce serving holds roughly twenty-one grams of protein and about 117 calories. By searing them, they remain moist and plump. Scallops are also a good source of vitamin B, omega-3, magnesium, and potassium, all of which are beneficial for the cardiovascular system."John rattled off casually. Sherlock paused in his return to the dish._

_"You're not a nutritionist or even a health nut,but you took extensive classes. Not for your mother because her illness wasn't controllable or your father because he was too set in his ways to change, but for your sister." John gave him a curt nod._

_"She's an alcoholic, so she might as well eat right. As pointless as it might sound to you, I'd prefer her liver to be her death." Sherlock didn't respond; instead, returning to his meal. He stabbed the other half of the scallop and scooped a bit of the relish on top, using his fingers to keep it on the fork. The peas popped sweetly in his mouth, the lemon off set serving as a perfect contrast that brought the scallop to life on his tongue. He couldn't stop the soft moan of appreciation from rumbling in his throat._

_"Peas have seven grams of protein and six grams of fiber per cup. They are also good for your heart and eyes, as well as a source of iron. There's also only 134 calories in a cup of cooked peas. Overall, the peas and scallops are a light, but filling meal. I promise it won't weigh you down as much as the heavy pasta and meal dishes you get from Angelo's. It's also low in sodium and trans fat, unlike our routine of celebratory Thai." John said, moving his attention to the book shelf rather than watch his flat mate eat. Sherlock happily finished his meal in silence. When he was done, Sherlock placed the fork on the plate and looked up at John. The other man flashed him a wide smile and stood, collecting the plate and heading into the kitchen. John was right. He felt contently full, not bloated and tired. John came back into the room with a smirk._

_"I won't force you to eat in the middle of the day or while we're on a stake out, but when we're home, you'll eat something. You need to eat, Sherlock, as much as you disagree. You'll notice the difference after a week or so. More energy and probably even the a more alert mind. I expect you to be even more of a dick. I'm off to bed. Good night, Sherlock." John filed up the stairs. Once Sherlock heard the John's door click closed, he stood from his chair and moved over to his violin. Plucking up the instrument, he began Brahms lullaby, a classic that he knew John adored greatly._

_The next morning, there was a broiled grapefruit, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, and a mug of bubble tea waiting for him on the table_

Sherlock never complained about eating, unless it was because he was ill. Then, John would fuss over that issue, talking about sitting in damp alleys while not dressed appropriately. John's fussing became endearing. It proved that there was someone who cared that he ate and remained healthy. That was John being the rational doctor, of course. But John was also a soldier. He made rash decisions in an effort to keep others safe. In their line of work, keeping Sherlock safe was John's top priority. If it meant putting his knee in someone's nose, he'd do it. It also meant that if taking a beating would ensure Sherlock's safety, then he'd do it. And Sherlock would always remember.

_They had been walking the block, dressed casually for the club scene. Their suspect hunted clubs for middle-aged men looking for younger partners. Considering all the victims were the older men, Sherlock claimed that the murder had to be young, early to mid-twenties, female from the depth of the nail crescents on the men and lack of fluids left at the scene of crime. The men wore condoms from the lines of dried semen striping down their sex and creating small puddles on their pelvis, but they had been removed to eliminate leaving her own fluids behind. They had found hair, but it was obviously from a horse. Anderson went to suggest checking out the jockeys in town, but Sherlock interrupted his moment of stupidly by exclaiming it was from a wig from the hair spray residue. Sherlock was hoping they'd find something to go on at the club. He wore an outfit similar to his usual, but left the top two buttons of his shirt undone to expose his neck. He left his both his overcoat and suit jacket back at the flat. But, he wasn't too concerned of how he looked. He didn't fit the murderer's victim preference. John did._

_John was only a few years older than himself really, but wore and the stress of pain left folds simulating age. His blond hair was always immaculately kept in a military style, barely noticeable strands of gray peeking through. Of course, Sherlock saw them. He wanted to tell John to stop plucking them when he caught them. Sherlock found them...well, interesting. His face was clean shaven. Sherlock convinced him to trade his jumper and plaid shirt for a well-fitted white t-shirt to show his well kept frame and ragged blue jeans that John had tucked in the back of his closet, claiming they were a tad too tight in the rear. Sherlock found that particular pair to be his favorite. He shook off the feeling as they made there way inside, immediately splitting apart to set up coverage of the club. The consulting detective's height allowed for him to keep track of John through the crowd. John took a spot at the bar, winking at the bartender as she filled a mug from the tap. She leaned forward as she served it, eager to show the ample cleavage visible from the low cut of her skin-tight shirt. Sherlock tried not to let it affect him. But when he hand found John's jaw, fingers pulling him closer to whisper something in his ear, Sherlock felt his blood boil. How dare she?!_

_John sat back with a nod to her, grinning from ear to ear as she pointed to the back exit. He stood from his seat and turned his attention to Sherlock. John brushed his right eye brow with his two fingers, signaling the other man to follow. Sherlock ignored how he shot up from his chair and pushed aggressively through the throngs of people trying to grind up against him. John was out of the door before him, but it closed too quickly. Rushing to the door, he threw it open to find him thrown back against the closing door with a hand on his throat. Off to the side, he could saw John kneeling with a gun to his temple. Blood was already running from the same side, an obvious backlash to John's defensive reflex if the thug's swollen cheek said anything._

_"Ah, Sherlock Holmes. I thought you'd be coming sooner or later." An airy female voice carried in the air. Glancing to the other side, he saw the bartender leaning against a black SUV. He couldn't believe it. There was nothing at the crime scene to explain men being at her aid. There had been sex, not unnecessary rough housing either. He ran through the last three scenes in his head. Nothing. The woman pushed herself off of the car and sauntered over to John. Her hand roughly grabbed his jaw, digging her nails into the soft surface of his cheeks. Sherlock suppressed his urge to smirk when John didn't even flinch._

_"That's too bad, John. I do love a military man. Tie 'em up, knock 'em out, stuff 'em in the back. I'll make plans for these two." The two men holding them waited until she had left in her own car, flying passed in a red suburban. The moment the thug holding John lowered his gun, John lunged forward to flatten his body on the ground. He twisted his legs to pull the man down. The thug fell to his front, catching himself on his hands, but not before John was rolling to his feet. He pressed his knee into the man's back, forcing him to the ground as his hands found his hair and pulled it back as far as he could. He then slammed it to the ground, the sound of bone crunching sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. Sherlock tried to move, but the lack of air from the man holding his throat made it a bit difficult. He brought his knee up and jammed it into the man's stomach. It left the man winded, but he only slammed the back of Sherlock's skull against the metal door. Disorientated, Sherlock's body was turned to stand before the man and forced to his knees. A sharp blade prodded the thin skin of his exposed neck._

_"Let him go or I'll send your boyfriend here on a journey north." Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from commenting on going to heaven. Even if he believed, he was certain he'd not be going up. John glanced up, a feral look on his face as he pulled his lip back in a sneer, but when he caught the gleam of the knife, his expression softened. He let his fingers unravel from the thug's hair and stood back. The man with the knife watched him carefully as his partner climbed to his feet, wiping the excessive blood spewing from his face. With a growl, he ripped out the handcuffs and forced John's front against the back of the SUV, a distinctive thunk as his head rebounded off to glass window. Sherlock calmly let himself be handcuffed with his hands behind his back and hauled up to his feet. John was already lying in the back of the SUV, body curling in on itself. Sherlock was pushed into the back and the door closed and locked. The men climbed in the front and began to drive. Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs. It was a double lock pair, preventing him from wiggling out. He looked up to John. His face was lax, blood slowly drying to his temple._

_"John?" Sherlock whispered, slightly worried._

_" 'm fine." The other muttered. It eased the tightness in the consulting detective's chest. He itched to run his fingers over the blond man's face. To check his response time, of course, he tried to tell himself. He made to comment on John's sudden dismissal of action._

_"I was fine. You should have—,"John foot kicking him in the shin shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did. What should have shocked him was John then pushing his foot to be between Sherlock's legs. It should have bothered him, but it didn't. The weight was comforting._

_"Shut up, Sherlock." Said man's mouth snapped shut, taking the hour ride in the SUV to watch John as he lie taking in deep breaths to help take the focus from his pain._

_When they reached where ever they were going, Sherlock was the first out. He was forcefully pulled out, but managed to catch himself gracefully on long legs. He was brought to stand before a desk until something blunt hit the back of his kneecap, making him kneel. The man who brought him out kept a firm hand on his shoulder. John wasn't brought out so nicely. He watched the heavy set thug grab John by his left elbow, yanking on his bad arm. The thug didn't give John the same grace that was given to Sherlock. Instead, he was instantly brought to his knees and his ankles tied. The thug then took John by the throat, dragging him across the floor then dropping him next to Sherlock. John raised his head, grimacing as the effort put strain on his weak shoulder. He gave his flatmate a small smile and let his head drop back down. Sherlock let out a deep breath, then schooled his features._

_"I'd appreciate if your imbeciles stop treating my doctor like a rag doll." The woman behind the desk stood, sauntering to the other side. She placed herself next to John, lifting his jaw with a fake pout._

_"Oh, the poor military man! Are you hurting? I think you've gotten off quite easily compared to my bloke. You gave him a broken nose and fractured brow bone. It only adds to the game, really. I'm going to enjoy letting you fuck me, then watching you die." John kept his face empty, not a single twitch of the nose from how close she was to him._

_"Take them down, I'll deal with him later. Mark is wondering where I am. You two make sure they stay put." She said, flicking back her bleach hair. Pulling out her mobile, she read, probably a text, and then flipped it closed. Sherlock was pulled up by a hand on the back of his neck. From the corner of his eye, he caught John being pulled off of the floor and then across the floor. They were taken down the stairs into a dark cellar, the stench of mold strong in the room. They were split on opposite sides of the room, the only sign of intelligence in the men really. His left handcuff was unlocked so that his arms could be brought up and locked around a pipe. He watched the same be done to John, who instead had one wrist handcuffed to a radiator leg. He fell limp against the wall, a sigh rushing from his lungs since his shoulder was finally able to rest. He lifted his head and moved it around to his pocket. Finding what he needed, John coughed, another signal between them._

_"You two. I know why you're here." Sherlock pointed to the thug who been beating on John, "She's your sister so you're just backing her up. But you, why are you here? From the callous on your hand, you were a construction worker. You were making good money and working day hours so you could find women at night. Because you went to the club scene, you found drugs. Cocaine to be specific. But now, you're out of work. You couldn't buy a woman's attention, let alone support your addiction. But she can. She has a lot of money because she's his older sister. She inherited the money and estate from your parents. You think I don't know who she is? When your friend here lost his work, you told him about your sister, but you didn't tell him what you had to do. She pays you for each body that you give her an alibi for. And the fact that she has you hide them in your house until the media calms down and allows her to kill him. But she doesn't kill them on scene, no, the crime scenes were too clean for that. She kills them here. She pays you both to kill up her mess then help her move the bodies. Once they're positioned, she removes the condom and leaves. That way, you're able to keep your drugs and you're able still get your family's money because Daddy didn't love you. You just came with his new fuck toy." Sherlock ranted, looking over the men as he watched John pick the cuff's lock. The heavy set man launched himself at Sherlock, beefy hand wrapping his neck and pressing hard against his adam's apple. He choked slightly, staring down his nose at the man._

_"Just where do you get off—," He started until something struck him in the back. John had thrown a log from the pile at his back. The man turned to find his partner out cold on the floor, a massive amount of blood still spilling out of his neck. Angered, the man charged him. John stooped to a lower position so that he could grab the man around the middle. The man grabbed futilely at the doctor's back, pulling the t-shirt up in effort to hold him. John shoved his leg between the man's, hooking it around his knee to pull him down. They went sprawling to the floor, John rolling on top to pin the other man. Sherlock pulled at his cuffs, frustrated he had nothing to free himself. He normally kept bobby pins in his overcoat. A sudden yelp and his attention was drawn back to the brawl. John was now on his back, the man digging his knee into John's abdomen and pressing his fingers into his shoulder. Thankfully the gap in their height allowed for John to bring his knee up and force their bodies apart. John used the staggering moment it took for the other man to stand straight up to rush his body. John slammed the man' back into the wall and pushed him to the floor. Quickly, he grabbed the man's wrist and snapped it into the handcuff. John felt the man's pocket for the cuff key and moved over to the Sherlock. He passed him the key and waited for Sherlock to get free. The moment Sherlock had his hands free, he turned to John and pulled him close. His fingers moved over the now swollen part of his jaw and dried blood._

_"That was foolish, absolutely idiotic. Why would you do that? We could have solved this in the alley if you'd just—," John caught his wrists and pulled them down._

_"He had a you." The good doctor whispered, voice ragged. Sherlock cocked his head._

_"I couldn't risk you, Sherlock. It wasn't worth it."_

The woman was arrested that same night. Sherlock would never forget the way John's expression melted with how a stranger held a knife to Sherlock's neck. Another held a gun to his own temple and John didn't even flinch. But the moment Sherlock was put in immediate danger, John not only flinched, he surrendered. It was weak, he should have thought it was weak. But John took the beating that came with his surrender, he didn't cry and whine about the hits he took. John only cared if Sherlock were hurt. He didn't have the least bit of concern over his own body.

John had a heart. He had a large heart, a warm heart, a caring heart that held Sherlock somewhere in there. Even then, even before those three dark years, John cared. And John still cared, even though now it went further than that. If John could withstand a couple strong hits just to keep him safe, then Sherlock could stand a John Waston shaped dent in his reputation.

Sherlock pulled his violin away from his chin, giving the flat a few seconds to stop the echo of his strings.

"John." He called. The blond doctor poked his head from around the kitchen archway, eyebrows arching in question.

"I love you." Sherlock heard what ever John was holding drop with a metallic clang. His head disappeared from the archway, but he then came around the bend drying his hands on a tea towel and moving quickly across the room.

"I know I don't say it often—," John locked his lips over Sherlock's before he could continue. Their tongues wrestled for a brief moment before the blond doctor pulled back and rested his forehead against his lover's.

"You don't need to, but it's nice to hear every now and again. I love you too." Sherlock quirked his lips in a smile and raised his arm, winding it around John's neck to bring him down for another kiss. Oh yes, his reputation could definitely handle a bump or two.


	12. His Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This has a bit of GUN PLAY , so just be warned. It's nothing to graphic, just implied about what is going on while Sherlock focuses on the John's gun and why it might be erotic to him. Well, hope you like it! Enjoy.

**His Gun**

Cool metal swept over his lips, slightly pulling the flesh back before moving on. The muzzle of the gun stopping of the edge of his collarbone. John dipped his head down to capture his lips. Sherlock arched his back as the gun moved just over to the left by three centimeters and then down by one to stop perfectly above his heart. Just the slip of John's fingers and that would be it. And John knew that without even looking. John had memorized the spatial positioning of the organs of the body back in medical school. He could point to your liver just by feeling your shoulder. John forced the round end deep into the pale tissue, still leaning over Sherlock and wrestling tongues. He pulled back, the erotically messy strand of spit breaking as he did.

Sherlock pale fingers crawled up the legs straddling him. He gripped John's hips and rolled his own to create friction. John dragged the metal tip lower, bringing it to a stop directly in the middle of Sherlock's breast bone. Glancing down, he could see the safety off. And that alone made for the most erotic sound to trickle from his throat. John chuckled above him, leaning down and capturing a dusky nipple between his teeth. Sherlock groaned, making the effort to keep his hands above his head where John demanded they stay. If he moved, John would take his gun and leave. He had before, leaving Sherlock hard and panting on the bed in their empty room. But what was so erotic about the gun?

It was metal, steel specifically, Browning L9A1, a standard issued handgun of the British Army during John's deployment. Standard. It wasn't special. No, it wasn't the gun, it was John. It was the way the gun sit so pleasantly in his hand. So beautifully snug in his right hand, even though he's left-handed for nearly everything else. Sherlock had seen the tremor of John's hand before, not as noticeable as it had been, but he'd seen it. John's hand didn't even twitch a finger ran over the trigger, touching by not squeezing.

It was dangerous, of course it was. Who would let an ex-soldier straddle his hips holding a gun, with the safety off, pointed directly into his chest. No man with sense. But sense was boring. Sherlock rolled his hips once more, begging for something. John gave a smirk, trailing the muzzle down pale skin to dip into his navel. Sherlock barely contained his frustrated growl. John returned the roll and released his abused nipple, moving on to the second. Sherlock didn't bother to bite back the moan spilling from his lips as John pulled the gun back up Sherlock's side and stopped between two ribs.

John was dangerous. A crack shot marksman who wouldn't lose sleep over killing a man. Not even a wink. But John also had strong moral principal. The actual danger of the situation was limited. Sherlock trusted John, even as his life could end with an accidental squeeze of his hand, the same hand that had tremors. But John had years of military training that perfected the flinch in his fingers. They wouldn't pull the trigger. There was no need to.

Maybe it was the fact John could shoot that gun with such accuracy that it made him envious. Of course, he knew had to shoot. He was a great shot, but John, the good doctor he was, could shoot a man across an alley from the next building and intentionally aim close enough to the heart close enough not to cause instant death. Or in the middle of a dark forest in between a man's eyes, dropping dead to the floor. Or from a rooftop a block away with a different gun, of course, but the same skill behind that trigger.

Scotland Yard carried handguns. Well, obviously they would, but it didn't compare to John. They were trained in the academy to aim for low points, target unimportant regions in order to detain and restrain. But John was trained to kill. One bullet. One try. Death. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. Whoever the target was would be dead with one shot if it was needed. Not a single man Sherlock had met at Scotland Yard could compare to John's marksmanship. Maybe Lestrade. Maybe with a rifle and scope, but John didn't exactly need it. If it was in range, he could get it.

That fact alone made Sherlock's blood race, pumping his heart faster as arousal sank in. No man, or woman, had ever been as close to causing him arousal as John could with a gun. He'd seen so many with guns. Hell, he was on an army base for a day and not one made his face flush. He'd seen the Yarders at a shoot out, even had one aim at his head once. But it didn't make his skin hot like John did. It was that John had a calm, false overtone to his military core that could fool anyone. HIs hand didn't shake because he wanted away from stress. No, John wanted the danger. He wanted to feel the tilting edge become too much. It was the threatening aura John could muster up with a simple square of his shoulders, part of his feet, squint of one eye as he aimed, and the squeeze of his fingers and …...oh god, that's fantastic.

His groan was muffled by the muzzle sitting in his mouth, the cool metal heated by his tongue. He swirled it over the round opening, slipping just the tip in, tasting the metallic surface that had been burned from friction. John pulled himself down, rolling his hips when he was fully seated. Sherlock gripped at the pillow under his head, trying desperately to keep his hands over his head. John placed his second hand on the gun, shifting his grip to steady as he pulled himself up on his knees and began to ride. Sherlock tossed his head back, causing the muzzle to leave his mouth. Saliva came with him, dripping down his chin as a sharp thrust down ripped a deep moan from him as his hips instinctive went up, meeting John’s movement. John held the gun close to Sherlock cheek, rubbing the muzzle over his cheekbone and down his jaw, smearing the now cold spit. He pulled the gun down to point directly in the middle of his throat, prodding his trachea. John urged their motions faster, setting a punishing pace that left them both panting. As he felt the coil of pleasure in his lower abdomen twist tighter, he grabbed the underside of the headboard. 

No, it was just John and his gun.The blond doctor leaned down, changing the angle of Sherlock thrusting into him. His gasping breath found his ear, teeth nipping for just a second before whispering hotly into his ear….

“Bam.”


End file.
